


if you want to strike me down in anger, here i stand (i'm your man)

by paganpoetry



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Angst, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21778729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paganpoetry/pseuds/paganpoetry
Summary: The best laid plans of cowards and criminals go to shit with a bullet through the stomach. Suddenly, bleeding out on a warehouse floor, marriages and Mexico don't matter. All that matters is that he's here, and he's dying, and he's laying in his lover's arms. And he needs to die with a clear conscience.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 94





	if you want to strike me down in anger, here i stand (i'm your man)

**Author's Note:**

> "When Orange confesses who he really is—'I’m a cop. I’m sorry'—he seems to follow it up with the tacit question. 'Do you still love me?' White, overcome by grief—he is groaning—realizes he has been deceived. Honor dictates that he must kill him, even though it means his own death. This personal execution becomes an act of supreme passion. Now cops flood the warehouse and tell him not to shoot their man. White shoots Orange in the mouth, and is instantly gunned down. Do I dare say that the two lovers are now united in death?" 
> 
> Title from the Leonard Cohen song.

Here's a nervous tick he didn't know he had: he twists the phony ring on his finger whenever Larry is around. It was his father's ring, old and worn and given to him after his death. He'd promptly thrown it into a bowl on his kitchen table and not given it another thought. That is, until, he needed a backstory and a fake wife. The point of his bride was this: when fucking around with criminals, it's best to have an old lady to get home to. Easy to say, "I can't go out drinking boys my wife'll kill me," or, "I don't need to pick up any girls I gotta old lady at home." A safe blanket. And now, with Larry, an obligation hanging over his head. 

Always, always, he says he's leaving her. Naked and panting and intertwined with Larry, he says he's leaving her. After the heist, a Reno divorce, they'll run away to Mexico and live on the beach with a couple of domestic brews and without a care. It's easier to pretend to break a heart than to admit he's been lying this whole time. And he does plan to leave: not "her" but the force. His whole life. He'd give it up for a shot at happiness with this criminal. 

The best laid plans of cowards and criminals go to shit with a bullet through the stomach. Suddenly, bleeding out on a warehouse floor, marriages and Mexico don't matter. All that matters is that he's here, and he's dying, and he's laying in his lover's arms. And he needs to die with a clear conscience. He knows that those three words will the hardest he'll ever say. I'm a cop. I'm so sorry. I'm a cop. Harder than the first time he told Larry "I love you."

He's wrestled with this before: should I tell Larry, how do I tell Larry? Looking at himself in the mirror and practicing a speech, hating his reflection even more than usual. Mulling it over on a date night, two margaritas in and Larry across the booth from him. But he never goes through with it. The first thing they teach you is if you blow your cover, you get shot. But he knows Larry would never shoot him. He's more afraid of breaking his heart than taking a bullet. 

Larry's hands are calloused, they caress his face and he notices just how worn and strong they are. He hadn't bothered to notice all the other times they'd been on his body, the heat of his skin, the soft stroking of his fingers. He notices now, though. Maybe because he knows he's going to miss this. Freddy's own hands are soft, shaky, a telltale sign that he's yet to live much of a life.

His mouth is already open, the bleeding from his belly and the pain and the imminent death, he's been wailing since the lead hit him. It would be so easy to just say it now, let it out in a gutteral sob, press one last kiss against Larry's palm and beg for forgiveness. It would be so easy. 

But nothing's ever easy with poor little fuck up Freddy Newandyke. 

He's got to wait for a hail of bullets and Larry's body pressed close to his own, bleeding onto the same dirty floor. Crying the same wounded cry. When things look bleakest, that's when he decides to act. If they're both going to die (and they're both going to die-- he'll go home and swallow a bullet if he somehow makes it out of this warehouse alive), he doesn't want Larry to have never known. 

"Looks like we're gonna do a little time." He wants to smile, he wants to say,  _ baby you're always the optimist. _ He wants to pull off his wedding band and press it into Larry's hand, kiss him hard and finally succumb to the gushing wound in his stomach. He doesn't. 

"I'm a cop." The words are forced. Painful. It hurts to say and hot tears sting his face as he pushes them out. "Larry." Bloodstained hands reach out, grope, searching for the older man's face. For his body. For comfort. For forgiveness. "I'm so sorry." He can hear Larry's heart break. He can hear it, with the strained sob and the cocking of his gun. "I'm so sorry." 

With a bullet to the mouth, things go black for Freddy Newandyke. With a litany of bullets to his body, Larry joins him. They won't be buried side by side. 


End file.
